


The Muse

by Nia_Kantorka



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agender Aziraphale (Good Omens), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Art, Art Theft, Body Positivity, Body Worship, Don't copy to another site, Female Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Male Aziraphale (Good Omens), Nudity, Rimming, angels and demons don't care about gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-19 09:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22242463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nia_Kantorka/pseuds/Nia_Kantorka
Summary: The one where Aziraphale has acted as a nude model for artists throughout history… and Crowley finds out.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 155
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	The Muse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TayaSigerson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TayaSigerson/gifts).



> Dear [Taya](https://tayasigerson.tumblr.com/),  
> It was such a pleasure to collaborate with you for this [Good Omens Big Bang](https://goodomensbigbang.tumblr.com/) fic. I'm very much in love with the beautiful artworks you have created for this story. Thank you so much! ♥ I'm happy and proud to show off your art together with my fic! 
> 
> A huge thank you to my first reader, [Candamira](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Candamira/pseuds/Candamira), and to my fabulous beta, [ClassicHazel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassicHazel/pseuds/ClassicHazel), who patiently added a lot of commas and some much-appreciated feedback to this fic, and to my story coach, [ElectraRhodes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectraRhodes/pseuds/ElectraRhodes), who was as excited for 'Muse Aziraphale' as was I. Ladies, you rock! Last but not least, thank you, dear [anonymous prompter](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?view=663144&posted=1#cmt663144) from the Good Omens Kink Meme on DW. Your prompt really inspired me. Hope you like what I did with it!

**The Muse**

Crowley came across the first painting by accident. 

He had skimmed through a fashion magazine because, for a demon on Earth, it was amazing to see humanity's creativity in full swing. Knowing what was 'in' and what was 'out' came in handy more often than not, as well. He could do this online, of course, but, sometimes, he liked to leaf through the glossy pages. Fashion shoots took place in the weirdest locations and he liked the juxtaposition of them—one shoot among derelict ruins, the next in an art gallery… That's where Crowley saw him, in a painting adorning the background. A nude Aziraphale, posing as Venus with a mirror. An irrefutably feminine Aziraphale. 

Disbelievingly, Crowley shook his head, nearly tumbling out of the chair he had been artfully draped on a second ago. The advertisement with the painting in the background didn't change. 

His mind hadn't been truly concentrating on the magazine, as he was waiting for his Bentley to be waxed and polished. The labourers at Smith's Vintage Car Care were the best at their job, and, if any car deserved the best, it was his Bentley[1]. 

Crowley, who avoided taking off his glasses in public, slid them down to the tip of his nose and squinted over them at the page. That _was_ Aziraphale; the long, blonde hair artfully coiffed with pearls and a golden hair band, the eyes so very blue, lips rosy and pouty while he, well, she gazed into the mirror. The mirror's perspective had been cleverly manipulated to show her best angles and was being held by two cherubs, of all things. Also, she wore the angel’s ring. If there had been any doubts about who was portrayed in the painting, the ring would have shattered them. 

Sometimes Crowley valued the work of humans, although not as often as Aziraphale. For example, a waxing done by Smith and his employees stayed in good order for longer than one miracled onto the car paint. But now, his patience had run out for today, so he helped the two men working on his Bentley along. The bill paid itself even before the secretary's printer had had a chance to dole out the invoice. Crowley then sped off, faster than even he usually managed, urged on by his surprising discovery. 

>><<

Slouching on his throne behind his desk didn't have the usual calming effect. Crowley frowned at his tablet[2]. He tried to remember what he had done in the sixteenth century. Ah yes, he had stayed in England, planting doubt about the Catholic church, because that gluttonous institution had rubbed him up the wrong way since the fourteenth century. Seeing one after another of Henry's lovers being decapitated had been a bit of a bummer, but leaders of whatever sort had always been the most violent of them all. 

Apparently, Aziraphale had spent his time in Italy, thriving among the abundance of emerging art, books and whatever other inventions were in fashion. Apart from that, he had obviously inspired Titian. Crowley studied the painting on his screen some more. The pale flesh, the spread fingers resting over one breast and covering the other. The nose and brows were both a tiny bit slimmer than in his male form, yet equally beautiful. Warmth unfurled in his belly, a common reaction when thinking about Aziraphale on a more... carnal level. 

Crowley cleared his throat and browsed some more. The original painting hung in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC. If he wanted to see it, he had to go there, regardless of whether or not he was keen on visiting the United States[3]. He gazed at his watch. If he hurried, he would be back for tonight's dinner reservation at the Ritz. With a loud pop, he left his flat behind.

>><<

He manifested directly in room 23 of the gallery. Crowley didn't want to waste any time, so he meddled with the memories of everyone around. There were a few Titians exhibited in the room, which was too crowded for his comfort, so he redirected the humans with a wave of his hand, security included, into the connecting exhibition rooms. Finally alone, he took Aziraphale in once more. With Titian's reputation, Crowley had anticipated that the colours would be amazing, and yet their vividness and magnificence still surprised him (even though he couldn't see them the same way most humans did). The painting looked as if Aziraphale could step out of it any minute. The want he had felt earlier came back with full force. On a whim, he overindulged in his wish and miracled a—hopefully—indistinguishable copy of the painting. He had read enough about the materials used to recreate the mixture of canvas, oils and pigments: ultramarine, vermilion, lead-tin yellow, ochres and azurite. Crowley also remembered to throw in some rare pigments, like realgar and orpiment, for good measure. Carefully, he removed the original from its frame, miraculously bypassing all safety precautions, and exchanged the paintings. 

Satisfied with his wily work, he fixed the duplicate on the wall, putting the safety measures back into place. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he sent the quite voluminous canvas back home and let the people back into the room. He observed the security guards for a few more minutes, but they showed no signs of noticing that anything was amiss. 

He smirked at a job well done and returned to London. Admittedly, Crowley had a soft spot for wiles where nobody got hurt. That he benefited from this one was the perfect addition. 

>><<

At the Ritz, later that night, Crowley tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the angel sitting next to him, wiggling and wriggling at times, was the same who had posed for Titian nearly five hundred years ago. Aziraphale was enjoying his crêpes Suzette like he had never had them before, with the same expression he had earlier after a first course of Norfolk crab with apple, avocado, and caviar, followed by a fillet with truffle and pears. Each culinary delight was accompanied by happy sighs and satisfied smiles… From the same Aziraphale who looked voluptuous and so very, very naked in the painting hidden in Crowley's new art room. 

"Is everything okay, my dear?" asked Aziraphale, which was a hint that Crowley hadn't been as subtle in his musings as he thought he had been. 

"Yes, angel, I'm all right."

Crowley didn't miss Aziraphale's incredulous glance, but preferred to ignore it in favour of filling both of their glasses with some more of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape they shared. He pushed his portion of crêpes Suzette to Aziraphale, directing the staff to look elsewhere, so as not to appear uncouth, and said, "Have mine, too." 

"Oh, Crowley, are you sure? These are _fantastic_. You'll miss out!"

"Absolutely. You know I don't share your sweet tooth[4]. Please enjoy!"

That did the trick and distracted the angel successfully from his inquisitive train of thought. Luck of the devil, he thought, and took an unnecessary deep breath. 

>><<

In all honesty, Crowley had never been that much of an art lover. His serpentine eyes made it hard to appreciate art, as everything was just blues and yellows, all greens and reds obliterated. He had heard fabulous things about Titian's red; alas, he had never seen it for himself. At least he wasn't completely colour-blind[5]. 

Though he was not the biggest art fan on the planet, Crowley loved the Da Vinci sketch in his office. He knew its tone was redder than the ochre and beige he could see, because Leonardo had told him the exact colours he had used. The whole sketch was of similar colouring, which made it perfect for him. Also, Crowley liked that Leonardo had had the chutzpah to draw his younger lover as the Mona Lisa—one of the most famous pictures of all mankind, and the woman depicted in it wasn't who she seemed to be[6]. Irony was something Crowley had invented; he was still proud of that one. Of course, he used it himself whenever possible. 

Crowley had created a new and secret room for the Titian. It wasn't often that Aziraphale dropped by his flat before the apocalypse-that-wasn't, but the angel's flying visits had increased in number since then. Crowley wasn't sure about confronting Aziraphale over his time as a muse; while he pondered the conundrum, he did nothing more than watch the painting, for an absurd amount of time. 

Of course, he summoned a new frame, too. It was still golden, but much slimmer than the one from the museum, and Crowley liked that it created a case for the precious canvas but wasn't obtrusive. Illuminating the painting had been a bit of a challenge. While researching, he had learned how sensitive these old pigments were, so he had installed a diffuse overhead light. In addition to that, one downward spot of cove light hit the floor and only shone indirectly at the picture. For further safety, the light was devoid of blue wavelengths[7]. 

There was no news about an art heist, either. 

>><<

Crowley thought that that was the end of it. Things went on. They met at St. James's Park to feed the ducks. They went to lunch, or dinner, or both, all over London. Afterwards, they often drank wine at his flat, or in the bookshop. It was all rather anticlimactic. Their relationship didn't change, even though Crowley yearned for it to develop from friendship to something more, with the accumulated passion of too many millennia. He pictured ways to change it, so many ways to woo his angel. But, whenever he actually thought about putting one of those plans into action, he got cold feet and… did nothing. He was a coward of a demon and it would probably need another six thousand years for him to—as Aziraphale would put it—get a wiggle on. 

That was the sad state Crowley was in when he spotted a poster in the window of Aziraphale's bookshop one morning, while bringing a selection of the angel's favourite Danishes. He gazed around, but Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen. Trying to make sense of the curious retro graphic caption, Crowley finally understood the poster was an advertisement for an art exhibition at the Saatchi Gallery, called _The Female Form in Modern Art_. Crowley wouldn't have given it a second glance if it wasn’t rather suspicious for Aziraphale to have it on display like this. As far as he knew, Aziraphale had always forbidden the display of leaflets, postcards and the like. He examined the rest of the counter, but found nothing more than books and a noticeable layer of dust.

"Angel, where are you?"

"Good morning, Crowley, dear boy." 

Aziraphale strode into the room, looking as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Crowley lost his train of thought until he had acclimatised himself again to Aziraphale's divine presence. Even after centuries, Aziraphale took his breath away… every damn time they separated and met again, he had this epiphany. 

"Err, yeah, it's a beautiful morning, not even cloudy—a minor miracle in London. So, enough small talk. I forgot about an urgent errand. I'll be back in about three hours to take you to lunch." He passed over the pastries. 

"Thank you, Crowley." Aziraphale bestowed him with his warm and perfect smile and asked, "Shall I accompany you?" 

Crowley's stomach sank. The angel looked so hopeful and he was always so bad at denying him anything. _Come up with something_ , he desperately thought. Ah yes. He pulled himself together and up to his full height. Then he said, "Not necessary, angel. The Bentley is due for a service and waiting for those guys to be done would bore you to discorporation." 

He continued, desperate to change Aziraphale's course. "Didn't you say yesterday you were going to rearrange the classification books? Not sure why you bother to collect them, when we're never further from nature than a walk in St. James's Park, but I'm sure you've got a reason for it." 

He smirked at Aziraphale, proud of the cunning change of subject, and, as predicted, the angel huffed and said, "You wily old serpent. Go and pamper your car—but don't think I will forget about you being insufferable this morning!" 

Aziraphale's comment was accompanied by a small smile, so Crowley knew they were good.

>><<

Without further ado, Crowley changed his plan from a fun morning of disrupting the angel's inventory and took the Bentley for a ride. When he finally reached Chelsea's King's Road, he swore, because he had forgotten about the Duke of York Square Food Market and even _he_ couldn't get rid of that many vans without someone noticing. Instead, he miracled himself a parking space and continued the last few yards of the journey on foot.

To get to the gallery, he had to cross the square and—looking at the food stalls from all over the world—he vowed to take Aziraphale with him the next time he had something to do in this corner of London. They tended to stick to their own neighbourhood since the events in Tadfield, possibly too much. As if Heaven or Hell couldn't find them whenever they wanted! Luckily, their former head offices couldn't be arsed with them since they had visited in each other's disguise. 

His good-natured smirk turned grim when he remembered Gabriel's words to him-being-Aziraphale. He hadn't told the angel that his brethren had wanted him to die without even giving him a trial. According to the angel, his own trial had been a farce, but at least Hell had had the good grace to give him one. If Crowley were able to pay Heaven, especially Gabriel, back, he would gladly take the opportunity. Like God with the Fallen, _he_ could hold a grudge too. 

Shaking off this dark train of thought, Crowley found himself at the entrance of the gallery. He hadn't been there before, but knew the early nineteenth-century grandeur was in stark contrast to the very modern exhibitions waiting inside. Even the demon had heard about the controversies between Saatchi, businessman and patron of the arts, and some of the artists he had promoted. 

The leaflet Crowley had grabbed in the entrance hall pointed him towards the second floor. The floor plan showing the exhibition rooms and stairwells was a bit confusing, but using the lift helped him to avoid wandering around for too long. The room Crowley entered was brightly lit. A pale hardwood floor and unobtrusive yellow walls drew the visitor's attention to the exhibits. Clever. He might need to redecorate the hidden room at home... 

Crowley strolled from painting to painting, not really paying attention to the very differently shaped women in the pictures when they weren't blonde. He did appreciate the more voluptuous bodies he saw. As a string bean himself, Crowley found the thought of bones chafing against bones rather unsexy. He guessed the concept of ‘size zero’ being optimal had been invented by Hell, but _he_ wasn't to blame for it. 

A-ha! He _knew_ the poster had been hung up in the bookshop because the picture on it was meaningful to Aziraphale. There it was. The picture he had come for. Crowley all but pressed his nose against the canvas to confirm whether this was Aziraphale or not. For one, modern art took more liberties with the model's looks, but the main challenge was that the profile wasn't on full display; Crowley couldn't distinguish Aziraphale's eyes, the most telling of the angel's features. The hair, if more golden, was spot on. The body was… female, of course, and more... luxuriant than Crowley imagined the angel to be. He flushed, realising his imagination had already constructed a remarkably distinct picture of a naked Aziraphale[8]. 

The giveaway that this was, indeed, Aziraphale was the red wine, which she drank from two different glasses. Crowley didn't give a rat’s arse about the wine, or the generous amount of alcohol cluttering the serving cabinet in the background. No, the real eye-catchers were her matching black lace bra and knickers and those satin stilettos that would make for a perfect murder weapon. Crowley—who wasn't a stranger to high heels and who could imagine how sexy they had made her feel whilst this painting was being created—loved the kick it gave him to see Aziraphale dressed up in irresistible black lingerie. 

Crowley spotted the toucan lamp, the ridiculous black ribbon, and the fact that Aziraphale was reflected in a mirror once again, only after he had stared for a good long while at her shapely legs and that tempting glimpse of bare buttocks that the lace didn't quite cover. 

Once he was able to look away from the painting, Crowley gazed at the exhibit label. One of Beryl Cook's 'Drinkies' series, from 2009. Definitely a good fit, he thought, smirking back at the canvas, before clandestinely taking in his surroundings. It was a Monday morning, without many visitors around. Crowley's criminal energy came forth; he shushed his conscience with the notion that stealing art was demoniacal as Hell, hence, the _right_ thing to do. 

He was alone in the room. To be on the safe side, Crowley planted distracting thoughts of other exhibits that _had_ to be seen first into the minds of the few humans heading his way. Copying the picture was easier the second time around. Maybe that was because the colours weren't hundreds of years old, or that he was already used to conjuring paintings. Crowley disrupted the circuit of the alarm until he had put the double into its frame and back on the wall. Afterwards, he sent the original into his flat's new art room. 

He consulted his watch. Pleased with the fact that he still had time until he was due to drive back to Arizaphale's, Crowley went down the stairs towards the ground floor. There, as the leaflet suggested, was a digital expo about _Social Media Art_ and Crowley couldn't wait to see what the mortals had been doing with his inventions. Probably the most marvellous things... 

>><<

They spent lunch at The Orangery in Kensington Gardens. Crowley, remembering that he thought they should branch out from their usual stomping ground, had suggested the pavilion restaurant, incorporating their love for London's greenery. 

Luckily, the weather still held, because Crowley hadn't bothered to check their interior design. That was a mistake. The pavilion was definitely too bright and reminded Crowley uncomfortably of Heaven's whites. Aziraphale sensed how tense he was suddenly and, thankfully, agreed to stay outside. Their terrace was decked with sunshades and had a lovely view; a combination that helped Crowley to relax.

Aziraphale enjoyed their stay, too. The food wasn't bad. Maybe not to the Ritz or the Savoy's standard, but scrumptious nonetheless. Crowley liked that the Mediterranean platter for two was mostly put together from Middle Eastern and North African specialities[9]. As far as Crowley was able to read in Aziraphale's facial expressions, the guinea fowl was on point and the roasted Chantenay carrots and dauphinoise potatoes were truly complemented by the mushroom cream sauce artfully draped around the dish. Their Laurent Perrier champagne selection wasn't bad, which Aziraphale didn't fail to notice. 

"To the world!"

"To the world, angel."

>><<

Crowley stepped up his flirting around Aziraphale, but either the angel was the most oblivious being under the sun, or the demon seriously lacked skills. They went on dates—though Aziraphale failed to notice they were dates. In defence of the angel, Crowley admitted they had been going on 'dates' since Paris, 1793, with interruptions whenever one of them had thrown a wobbly, so it was hard to see the difference. He tried to make their dates more intimate by booking cosy booths or corner tables, or a box when they went to the theatre, the opera, or the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Aziraphale didn't comment on any of his efforts; he just smiled beatifically at the demon.

He brought food to the bookshop on a regular basis, at all times of the day: cocoa and Danish pastries in the morning, matcha with a variety of wagashi from that shop not far away from the Ritz in the afternoon or evening, baklava, halva, whatever Middle Eastern sugar-sweet he could find after lunch. Faloodeh was Aziraphale's favourite, which led to some logistical problems, until Crowley bought a coolbox. Liquorice and all sorts of jellies weren't to the angel's taste—probably because they stuck to the teeth like glue. Aziraphale was indifferent to cheese and preferred sweet to savoury, even where the _rarest_ of cheeses was concerned[10].

That was why Crowley was out to visit a food fair in Olympia Hall on this fine Sunday morning. Even though he had spent more than six thousand years on Earth, the demon had paid attention to food only around Aziraphale. His knowledge had increased over time, correlating with the angel's love of human cuisine. Yet, he needed new inspiration and thought a professional food fair might be the place to find it. 

It wasn't even his doing, but roadworks were blocking parts of Holland Road, Kensington High Street and Cromwell Road on the same weekend, so taking the Bentley was out of the question. Crowley loathed traffic jams with a passion—no matter that he _might_ have had a hand in creating them... It was one of his inventions that backfired on him. The Tube would have to do. Without the weekday rush hour, it shouldn't be too bad. 

Even wearing his sunglasses, Crowley disliked the bright lights of London's Tube stations. Their garish shine made him stride to the platform as fast as possible. Thankfully, the train was only three minutes away. 

He tried to distract himself by walking up and down the platform while looking at the adverts covering the tunnel walls. He was glancing, only half-heartedly, at a poster for the British Museum when something on it caught his attention. _Body Positivity Through the Ages_ was the exhibition's title. One of the four different pictures showed the sculpture of a woman, or maybe an ancient goddess, and she reminded him vaguely of someone... A round and voluptuous body crowned by curly hair. He frowned, and then it hit him. _Aziraphale_. _Again_. 

This time, his jaw dropped. He stopped dead in his swagger, a motion that would have put quite a strain on his pelvic girdle and head of his left femur, if he weren't a demon whose joints wouldn't dare to dislocate. Everyone around him immediately gave him as wide a berth as possible in such a confined space, not knowing where their change of direction came from. 

The train approached and Crowley's view was blocked. He jumped onto the train and stormed to the window closest to the poster to commit its dates to memory. Then, he whipped out his mobile to pay the museum's webpage a visit. Crowley had sorted out the abysmal WiFi gaps on the Tube for himself and usually found it entertaining to observe exasperated humans cursing their lost reception. Today Crowley didn't pay attention to anybody around him; on the contrary, he was so absorbed in browsing through the online catalogue that he nearly missed his stop.

The food fair gave him some new ideas about what to try with Aziraphale next. Mostly, though, Crowley was absent-minded, considering a visit to the British Museum over the next week.

>><<

The British Museum was one of London's busiest, and Crowley had no intention of mingling with the crowds. That's why he chose a Friday for his jaunt; the museum would be open late. Crowley called Aziraphale and mentioned he wasn't available for dinner tonight. The angel sounded put out, but Crowley was having none of it. In a way, it was the angel's own fault. If he had just told Crowley about his hobby of being a muse to—as the demon had guessed by now—at least one artist every century, the demon would have invited the angel to join him. For now, Crowley was glad he had _phoned_ Aziraphale, otherwise, face-to-face, the angel's expression would have made his resolution crumble as Satan's had under Adam's harsh verdict. Crowley knew his weakest point far too well.

Great Russell Street, home of the British Museum, wasn't far from his flat in Mayfair, and he fancied a walk, so he didn't take his Bentley or the Tube, but went on foot. Reaching the museum's main entrance, Crowley breezed through security among the last guests of the day. As in most art galleries and museums, visitors were only allowed in with half an hour to spare before closing time. Sometimes you didn't need wiles, just perfect timing. 

Crowley knew which part of the labyrinthine floors he was looking for; the museum had been one of their secret meeting points, after all, and he liked to visit its permanent collection every once in a while to reminisce. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw displays of old coins he had used himself a couple of hundred years ago, of commodity money made from shells, and there were also silver rings he'd used in good old Mesopotamia before God had become tetchy and drowned more or less everyone[11]. Crowley shook himself out of his reverie and carried on towards the exhibition he was looking for—he was on a schedule, after all. 

There it was. The sculpture he wanted to see (and pilfer). It was one of the Maltese Sleeping Ladies, often also called dreaming women. This particular one was in fairly good condition... well, for a statue made from clay about four thousand and five hundred years ago. Of course, there were signs of its old age; her dress and the bed she was resting on were chipped. On the other hand, he could make out curls at the base of her hooded cape, a detail he wouldn't have thought would remain after such a long time. Her curves were breathtaking, as well: the wide pelvis, symbolising the fertility goddess of that time, and the voluptuous torso and arms evoked in Crowley the urgent need to leave everything behind and run back to the bookshop. There, he would be able to embrace his angel and feel his gorgeous corporeal form for real. He sighed longingly... then he shrugged, exasperated with himself. They weren't the hugging types, after all. Crowley still needed to figure out how to change that, as his wooing skills were subpar when it came to Aziraphale.

Around him, the guards became more nervous, an indication for him to get this done as fast as possible. Feeling for other beings nearby, he found someone trying to hurry towards the exit. It was a genderfluid septuagenarian and Crowley felt connected to them in an instant. Crowley reached out mentally and made them faint, carefully letting their body slide to the floor; Crowley felt they wouldn’t mind being used as a pawn in the game of true love. The guards around him shouted in alarm when their communication devices blared out news of the incident. Hurriedly, they left their places to help them. One could always count on British gallantry—there were medals and whatnot for that kind of thing.

Crowley got to work. He created a copy of the sculpture, dismantled security, swapped the figurines, put the alarms back on and miracled the original sculpture to his home. He was getting better and better at art theft, he thought, and couldn't help smirking about his newfound pastime.

Turning around, he reached out to his unknowing accomplice once more. They had just regained consciousness and Crowley wanted to say _thank you_ to them for having been at the right place and time. He concentrated again. Miraculously, their severe heart condition turned into one that would only be a minor inconvenience and barely recognisable on auscultation. Win-win for everyone involve! Well, perhaps not for the British Museum, if Valletta's National Museum checked their items with more than a glance when they arrived back home in Malta... He had done a thorough job with all three copies, though, and, if nobody got suspicious, they wouldn't be found out at all.

>><<

It went on like this. Crowley went on long internet sprees, occasionally popping into this or that art gallery to verify an _Aziraphale_. Most of the time he was right—apparently, research on artists was easier done than it had been to keep track of the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of This World, and Lord of Darkness, also known as Adam Young, eleven, no, twelve years ago—and he just exchanged the art with a fail-proof copy.

His collection grew from three to ten pieces in a matter of weeks. Most of them were Aziraphale portrayed as Venus. There was a whole series, drawn by Titian again, of _Venus and Musician_. Those made Crowley's blood boil with jealousy; the different musicians all ogled the naked and beautiful Aziraphale as if she were theirs. He guessed Titian had been nearly as much of a goner as he was for his angel. Yes, the paintings were beautiful, but Crowley wanted the feelings he had for the angel ever since the Garden all to himself. Still, he did feel some kinship with the long-dead artist, having a love for Aziraphale in common...

There was also a lovely Rubens. Crowley loved the luscious women the Dutch painter had depicted. The man had had a wonderful sense for real people, but, normally, his paintings were dusky, like Hell. The background was exactly that, but Aziraphale and her companions in that picture were bathed in a satisfyingly warm light. Crowley especially loved how the angel wore her hair down and how Aziraphale's fair complexion contrasted with the beautiful skin tone of the woman of colour next to her. It was definitely one of the loveliest pieces of his growing collection. Admittedly, he also found joy in the fact that he had stolen this particular picture from some prince's collection in Liechtenstein. Aristocrats, clerics in the olden days and politicians nowadays, were all of the same nasty stock—in his opinion, worse than the evillest demon in Hell. 

A Renoir, a Licinio, a Botero and the famous Venus of Willendorf—all replaced by a replica—rounded off his collection for the time being. Crowley was sure there were more. He just had to find them. Research was a time-consuming thing; indeed, Crowley understood much better now how the angel could get lost in it for ages when he was after some first edition or another. 

Still, time was passing. Admittedly, Crowley got obsessed over his angel's past, but didn't want to neglect his present self. He turned up at the bookshop at least once a week to take Aziraphale out. 

Crowley didn't always call ahead before going over. Aziraphale was a creature of habit and, unlike Crowley, didn't have a penchant for sleeping, so he was, in all likelihood, in his bookshop or its affiliated flat. As far as Crowley knew, Aziraphale always asked for Crowley's company if he wanted to go out socialising. 

It was disconcerting, therefore, when Crowley stood in an empty bookshop twice over the course of five days. Crowley even searched the bedroom, which had gathered three more shelves since Crowley had last peeked into the room about ninety years ago.

He called Aziraphale the next day to ask him out for dinner, but the angel said he would be busy. So Crowley waited two days and visited Aziraphale in the evening, bringing some continental biscuits—French macarons, German spekulatius and Dutch gevulde koeken—with him. There was no angel in sight. Crowley wandered about the bookshop, banishing some dust bunnies on his meandering path between high shelves, coffee tables, desks buried under piles of books and a counter that seemed to be drowning in papers, parchments, and more books. He pushed some book collector's catalogues aside to leave his offerings in the cleared space on said counter, so Aziraphale couldn't miss them. Then he plodded back outside and drove home. 

Crowley tried to think nothing of it. He went on with his research. It kept him busy and entertained. Whenever he found another artwork, he took it and preened over his collection. The need to talk to the angel increased with each find, though, and, when Aziraphale had put Crowley off for a fortnight, his mood turned dark. 

He had read of a patisserie that served original Greek desserts. Crowley had a look and bought some galaktoboureko and freshly made loukoumades, the latter dripping in thyme honey, dried sesame seeds and chopped walnuts. He rarely indulged in sweets, or food in general, but tried one himself. It was delicious. He hurried to get them to Aziraphale as fast as possible, hopefully still warm. Beforehand, he had repotted a small, but lush and beautiful, strelitzia that he also brought over as a gift. Fully laden, he arrived at the bookshop where the door—that had always opened for him so far—stayed closed. Crowley nearly knocked his head against the glass panels, instead blinking confusedly when the door didn't give way. This time, Aziraphale was there; Crowley saw a glimmer of light shining through the cracks between the shutters. When he called "Aziraphale" loudly and insistently, the angel took his time to reach the door. When Crowley pressed his nose against the glass to fruitlessly peep inside, he heard a rumbling sound, as if a huge pile of books had just toppled over. Finally, Aziraphale was there, but didn't open the door. The angel's voice sounded flustered and breathless. The excuse he presented Crowley with was painfully implausible, something about an emergency with an infestation of mice—as if that was anything new in a fucking bookshop.

Aziraphale's behaviour was extremely odd. 

Crowley turned around and—this time—didn't leave the presents behind. He threw the sweets, together with twenty quid, into the hat of a homeless person along the way. At home, he put the little strelitzia back where it belonged—in his plant bed.

Crowley called and called his angel. Still, Aziraphale denied him any meetings. His excuses turned from flimsy, to shabby, to unbelievable. Crowley's irritation and anger grew. 

Six weeks passed like that and Crowley's temper rose to new levels. By now, it was worse than it had been after the St. James's Park incident in 1862. This time, Crowley didn't sleep it off. Instead, his anger continued to grow—and fester. 

His rants were running in circles about how Aziraphale was the one who had kept his posing as a nude model a secret for centuries. It didn't count that they had fended off the apocalypse together—he had, apparently, now turned his back on Crowley. The angel was a mystery-monger and didn't deserve his affection. On and on Crowley went. While he strutted through his flat, he grumbled and snarled under his breath. From nagging, he progressed to complaints that morphed into swearing—more and more malign with every passing day.

The demon wasn't just sulking and swearing, he was heading for a breakdown of epic proportions. Or, perhaps he would combust from his ire first. 

The days without Aziraphale were bleak. Crowley was hurting, badly. His houseplants shivered, not from fear for themselves, no; they stirred to reach him, as if they were trying to console him. Not even the stolen paintings and sculptures of Aziraphale, which he had loved to gaze at for hours, could lift his spirits. Instead, he had had to leave the hidden room twice yesterday in order to not to give in to his rage and destroy some artist's legacy by demolishing one or more (supposedly) irreplaceable masterpieces. 

His fraying nerves were prompting him to do something, anything, when his doorbell rang. Aziraphale stood, unannounced, on his doorstep. 

"Angel," Crowley snarled at him. For the first time in about two thousand years—since Rome—Crowley raised his voice to Aziraphale, the endearment resembling more a curse than anything else. 

He drew himself up to his full height. 

"May I come in?" Aziraphale asked. His voice sounded a bit cautious, but still too chipper for Crowley's liking. 

Reluctantly, he stepped back to make room for the angel. Only when Aziraphale passed by him did Crowley spot the huge, flat parcel he was carrying. A suspicious flicker rose in him and he asked, "What brought you over?" 

He followed Aziraphale into his living room.

"Oh, nothing much," Aziraphale said, throwing a beatific smile over his shoulder. Aziraphale turned on his heels and gazed at Crowley, as if on a mission. He picked up the parcel and handed it over.

"For you, my dear."

"What is it?" Crowley asked. 

Doubt clouded his voice; all he wanted to do was scream at Aziraphale and let out all the accumulated frustration. At the same time, he yearned to know where Aziraphale had been and why he had abandoned Crowley for so long, just to then waltz into his home as if all was well and nothing had disrupted their peaceful relationship.

"Have a look." 

Aziraphale's blue eyes displayed an unfair puppy-dog expression that was like a punch in his gut. _Uncalled for_ , Crowley thought, and more irritably, _the angel is not playing fair_. 

Aziraphale didn't back down. On the contrary, he lifted the parcel up until it hovered in the air right under Crowley's nose. 

As far as Crowley could see—his eyes nearly crossed, taking it all in—it was wrapped in ordinary brown paper and twine. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Aziraphale before he stroppily accepted the package. Once Crowley held it in his hands, Aziraphale stepped back and waved at him encouragingly. 

After patting the parcel's edges and surface, it dawned on Crowley. He was holding a canvas. 

"Is that…?"

"Just open it." Aziraphale gazed at him as if he were the silliest demon in history (which wasn't far from how Crowley felt right now) before he added, "it won't bite." 

To buy some time, Crowley went to the sofa, sat down and put Aziraphale's present on the glassy, black coffee table. The canvas—or painting—was at least three feet high and about two feet wide. Carefully, Crowley began to untangle the knot of twine that kept the wrapping in place. 

"Please enlighten me, angel: why am I getting a present?"

"Wait and see for yourself, dear boy." Aziraphale slid onto the sofa, at his left. 

Crowley swore silently, because he wasn't wearing his sunglasses and knew the yellow irises would have overtaken all of the white—they always did when he became agitated. Maybe Aziraphale hadn't noticed.

"Is anything wrong?"

No such luck, then.

"Err… no. This gift-giving is a bit of a mystery to me, to be honest." 

Crowley was usually more dexterous than his fumbling attempt with the twine would suggest, but, at long last, he succeeded in untying the knot. The paper came loose and revealed the back of the painting. He sighed; Aziraphale, next to him, chuckled.

With a flourish, Crowley flipped the canvas over. He froze like a deer in the headlights when he caught the first glimpse of the picture. 

It was Aziraphale. 

_Nude_. 

Crowley took some deep breaths. Then, he bent closer, to soak in the details. For the first time, he saw a painting where Aziraphale wasn't presenting as female. He wasn't male, either. It was as if xe hadn't wanted to distract from xyr true form by genitals or chromosomes or the like. 

The painting showed Aziraphale androgynous and asexual, like angels had been made originally by Her. In a way, the missing genitals only highlighted xyr glowing beauty. Crowley was mesmerised by the angle of Aziraphale's head and the arch of xyr neck. Xyr fair curls were particularly springy and xyr skin, especially on xyr belly, chest and shoulders, looked incredibly soft to the touch. Crowley longed for it with every fibre of his being. 

Then there was xyrs posture. Aziraphale was draped like a silent movie star over a velvety sapphire-blue chaise lounge. One arm was lying on the armrest while the other held on to one sturdy leg that was sprawled out from hip to toes. The other leg was bent at the knee, and, together, they created a teasing space in between that tempted Crowley to forget himself and caress the canvass. All in all, the dark blue of the sofa's surface contrasted wonderfully with Aziraphale's fair complexion. The background was filled with an unobtrusive light blue that served only one purpose—to draw the observer's eyes back to the angel's naked form. 

It was a gorgeous piece of art. 

The most urgent question tumbled out of his mouth. "Who drew you like this?" Crowley's voice vibrated with barely suppressed jealousy of yet another unknown artist that Aziraphale trusted to show his true form.

"Nobody… Err, me. I painted myself."

"You _what_?" Crowley's brain short-circuited; it took a few seconds for it to recalibrate and come back online. Just like it had done at the beginning—on that wall of the Garden. 

"Don't you like it?" asked Aziraphale, his voice barely a whisper. His fingers were fidgeting with the lapels of his coat as he was wont to do when nervous. 

"Ngh… angel, of course, I do. It's brilliant. I _love_ it. Look at you. You are absolutely stunning." _You should wear no clothes more often_ , tumbled through his mind as well, but thankfully he didn't blurt it out. The obvious stress Aziraphale was under made him ruffle his hair in sympathy. It also kept him from hugging the angel in consolation. 

"When...? Where...? … How did you do this?" he eventually managed to ask.

"I believe it's time for a confession," Aziraphale said. "I've been taking drawing lessons for decades now. I've always loved the arts, admired how humans can draw, write or express themselves over the same thing in so many different ways. I wanted to see if I could do it, too."

Crowley nodded; Aziraphale's reasoning made sense. 

He prided himself on a lot of inventions, and yet the creativity of humankind still surprised Crowley at times. They always came up with new, hilarious and wondrous ideas. They were a marvel—sometimes for good, sometimes for evil, and, most of the time, for the grey areas in between. Aziraphale and Crowley were probably the only angel and demon who admired them for putting their divine spark to use like this. The other angels and demons couldn't even comprehend how multifarious humans truly were. No wonder the angel wanted to participate for once, instead of admiring and hoarding their creations in his bookshop. 

The angel carried on, "Skill really does come with practice! It took me a lot of time to learn the basics, then about ten years to get comfortable with painting myself—I realised nudity would be great fun early on. Then, another decade or so to get the knack of the right illumination. I was not much of a talent at the start, but determination has spurred me on whenever I was close to cutting and running." Aziraphale gazed at his likeness on the canvas and a proud smile crossed his face. "This picture has been a long time coming—the actual drawing was done much faster. It took just a few weeks."

"That's where you have been? Whenever you stood me up lately?"

"Yes. I'm sorry for not having told you earlier what I've been up to." Aziraphale sounded contrite and earnest.

It soothed the hurt Crowley had been in like a much-needed balm. His eyes were still fixed on the painting. In his mind, he had already arranged a place of honour in his hidden room.

His hidden room. The room that was full of artwork, depicting Aziraphale.

 _Shit_.

Crowley tore his eyes away from the picture to look at the angel by his side. "Guess I've got to come clean then, too." It wasn't a question. He _had_ to tell Aziraphale his own secret now. 

"You have been quite busy yourself, haven't you?" Aziraphale asked. "I've been by your flat thrice to see you, because I've missed you. Admittedly, three times is not as often as you called me these past weeks, but you were never home. So, it seems to me we both were occupied with something." Curiosity turned Aziraphale's blue eyes into a dark blue shade that shone nearly brown. 

Crowley had no means of defence against these eyes. He swallowed once before he said, "Err… best I show you."

He got up and waved for Aziraphale to follow him. Then he sauntered meekly towards his secret room, which soon might become his ultimate downfall. His treacherous heart held onto Aziraphale's admission about how he had missed Crowley and soared up from its wallowing into much lighter, more hopeful and uncharted regions. It was a turmoil of feelings. 

"Funny..." Crowley started, but cut himself off when he reached the secret chamber. When he snapped his fingers, the door became visible and opened. Another snap put on a warm and welcoming light in the room, illuminating the stashed treasures. 

Aziraphale walked past him and Crowley heard the sudden intake of breath followed by an "Oh!"

The conflicting emotions were killing Crowley. If he could have got out of this situation by falling again, he would have done so. Gladly. Yet, he wanted to see the angel's reaction and not miss a fraction of a second; blinking had become a habit in six thousand years and, in this moment, he cursed it. His demonic curiosity won out and his wide-open eyes were glued to Aziraphale. 

The angel's eyes roamed over the exhibition quite fast at first, then began again with less hurry. He drifted from one example to the next and Crowley could literally watch the memories of times past flash through his mind. Aziraphale crossed the room, circling around the two sculptures as he did so. After a good while, which felt like both aeons and no time at all to Crowley, he came back to the present. He turned to the demon, wearing an inscrutable expression.

Crowley couldn't even gather from it whether he was in trouble or not. Well, obviously he was, but how deep the grave was that he had dug himself wasn't distinguishable at all. 

"Angel, I can explain." His voice sounded scratchy and scared. 

"You turned into an art collector."

"Yes. No. Err..."

"You have developed an unhealthy obsession with my nudes."

"You don't say!" Crowley drawled and added, "I approve of you being naked." He bit his lip to stop himself from blurting out anything more incriminating.

Aziraphale had crossed the room without Crowley noticing and stood only a hairbreadth away. _So close_ , Crowley thought, begging the angel to close the distance between them without uttering a word. 

"Are you in love with me, my dear?"

Crowley trembled. He was unable to say anything, not even the usual floundering noises he made when desperate or speechless. His gaze locked with Aziraphale's and he nodded once. Before the angel could do anything, let alone respond, Crowley shut his eyes and hung his head. He couldn’t help but question how showing his haul of artworks had turned into him confessing his love to Aziraphale. 

Warm hands clasped his cheeks and soft lips brushed against his. Crowley's eyes flew open and his arms wound around the angel, determined not to let Aziraphale slip away. An unnecessary precaution, because Aziraphale hugged him back. 

Crowley hid his face in the crook of the angel's neck. There, he inhaled Aziraphale's characteristic fragrance: the angel smelled of old books and magnolia blossoms. In the Garden of Eden, it had just been the flowery scent, but papyrus, parchment and paper had joined his smell since humans had invented them and it melded into this heady mixture that was purely _Aziraphale_. It soothed Crowley's fraying nerves and he mumbled veraciously, "I love you. Have for ages and thought nothing could or would ever come of it."

"My darling boy, it took me so many centuries to acknowledge my feelings for you. Once I did, I realised that I've been in love with you since… well, forever. I am truly sorry you had to wait this long for me to do anything about it. It was still easier to gift you the painting instead of telling you how I feel!"

"‘S no problem, angel." Crowley clung to Aziraphale as tightly as he could. "Would you kiss me, please? So I can be sure I'm not dreaming."

"Oh, love." Aziraphale leant back until his lips found Crowley's again.

Crowley's insides turned into a heap of glowing warmth when his tongue met Aziraphale's. _This is how getting discorporated must feel_ , was his last coherent thought, before he got lost in the wet slide of their kisses. 

>><<

It was much later when the demon came back to himself. He had no idea how long they had been kissing, but his lips were sore and they both were partly undressed. Aziraphale's usually tamed curls looked as if they had been exposed to a storm, his rumpled coat and waistcoat were lying on the floor and his shirt was open. Crowley admired the angel's pale chest and the wonderful belly he had yearned to touch for millennia. He couldn't wait to worship its softness in its entirety. 

Aziraphale had been busy too: Crowley's torso was bare and his loose snake belt buckle pressed uncomfortably against his sharp hip bones. They were still standing in his not-so-hidden-anymore room, surrounded by art of _his_ angel. 

"Shall we move to... the bedroom?" Crowley detested how his voice sounded both eager and unsure at the same time. 

"I would love to," Aziraphale said, without hesitation. 

"Will you turn into your female form for me, some time, as well?"

"Now?" Again, the angel didn't miss a beat. 

"No. I've longed to touch you in this form for forever. I didn't even know you liked to present as female at all. You are gorgeous either and all ways." Crowley hesitated before he carried on. "I've been green with envy of those artists. Every single one got to see you in I way I haven't… until today. Now I feel honoured because you've gifted me a painting of you nobody else will ever get to see. Thank you, angel!"

Aziraphale's radiant smile answered Crowley’s confession, before the angel dragged Crowley towards his own bedroom. 

"You'll get to see me however you want, love. I'm looking forward to sharing all of my corporeal forms with you and hope you will grant me the same favour."

By now, Crowley had nearly pulled himself back into a more composed state and was able to see the funny side of things. 

"Here we are, planning our _nth_ encounter, even though we haven't had the pleasure of finishing the first!" He snickered self-deprecatingly at Aziraphale, following the angel across the threshold of his bedroom. 

"We aren't moving too fast, are we?"

"Aziraphale," Crowley turned serious again, "we have been going slowly for six thousand years. You said the contrary a few decades ago, but I'm not sure if you meant that for real. So, if _you_ are comfortable with the pace set, I will happily follow your lead. We can go as slow or as fast as you want."

"Thank you, my dear. You weren't going too fast back then. I was just terribly afraid." 

"Believe me, angel, I know all about being scared. About Heaven and Hell trying to eliminate us again. About all these feelings—I'm a demon for H… Sa… _argh_ … somebody's sake. I'm not supposed to be in love with an angel and yet I can't help it. I love y—."

Aziraphale stopped Crowley's declaration by kissing him, all tongue and teeth now, and pushed him impatiently onto the bed. The demon hadn't even realised they had crossed half of the room together; his attention had been solely focused on Aziraphale. 

They picked up where they had left off in the hidden room by each trying to get the other out of his clothes, until they realised they would be faster taking off their own garments. Normally, Crowley treasured his skintight jeans, as they were the closest he could come to wearing a serpentine skin in public, but, right now, they were the biggest nuisance ever invented by mankind. He hissed in frustration at the pair stuck halfway down his calves. Next to him, Aziraphale burst into a fit of giggles.

"Serves you right for flaunting your impossibly handsome legs in those skinny jeans for everyone and their dog to see."

"I was just asking myself why we are doing this the human way, but please do tell me more about my ‘handsome legs'." Crowley heard how his voice changed from its prevailing snark into a self-mocking tone.

Aziraphale had none of it. "Why do you sell yourself short, love?"

"Mmh… to be honest, angel, I like curves and think I'm a bit too scrawny. It fits my serpentine form and I can wear skinny jeans like a pro, yet I feel decidedly… twiggy," he muttered, adding "You—in all your opulent glory—look so much more appealing to me than anyone with my lankiness."

"Thank you, my dear. I'm glad you appreciate my softness. If you ask me, I think we are going to be a wonderful match. We always have been, even though we didn't realise as much. Just look at you, all slender and sashaying, and how it fits me, owning my curves." Aziraphale sent a rapturous look his way and Crowley just _had_ to smile back. "I'm sure you will get used to my compliments in no time," he emphasised. 

Finally, they were both naked and Crowley made good on his word. He caressed every inch of Aziraphale's body. He started with the soft curls and kissed and licked his way downwards over the voluminous planes of Aziraphale's torso, where pink nipples and a sweet belly button invited him to give them special attention, before he slid further, settling between the sumptuous thighs that had invaded his dreams for ages. He turned the angel into a panting mess by licking lavishly at the crook of the angel's knees, his insteps and his rosy toes. Crowley was so immersed in worshipping Aziraphale as a whole that only the angel's desperate complaint to not forget his cock reminded Crowley how sex usually went.

Crowley realised with a start that he wasn't in any better state than the angel, yet he wanted to draw this out longer. 

"Would you—" 

"Could you—" 

They started at the same time. 

Crowley grinned up at Aziraphale from his vantage point between his heavenly legs. "You first, angel." 

"Would you take me, my dear?"

"Only if you return the favour, and soon," he said, playfully. 

"Of course. But I can't wait much longer..." 

Aziraphale wiggled a bit and turned around. Seeing this beautiful bottom in front of him was all the encouragement Crowley needed. He firmly grabbed both cheeks, spread them, and started licking over Aziraphale's opening. Preparing the angel with his tongue was as good as he imagined it would be and the little noises Aziraphale made drove Crowley mad. 

He conjured lube with a miracle, wanting it to be smooth going. Crowley had had sex before (he was a demon, so it came with the territory), but making love was a first. As was being intimate with an angel, _his angel_. Considering both of their personalities, he gathered there was room for negotiations about rougher and more adventurous sex later. Not now, though. Now he would do everything to make it special and intimate for them both.

Crowley slipped a finger into the angel's tight heat. He waited until the flesh relaxed and gave way to explore further. When Aziraphale keened suddenly, Crowley knew the angel hadn't forgotten any parts of the male anatomy in his Effort... a fact Crowley planned to take advantage of. He added a second finger, but, before he could thoroughly enjoy driving Aziraphale wild with his movements, the angel demanded, "Good Lord, would you go on and fuck me already?"

 _The mouth his angel had when things didn't go his way.._. Crowley smirked, though he was more than ready to fuck Aziraphale by now. 

"Turn around. Need to see you."

Aziraphale did, positioning himself for Crowley to take. The first slow slide into him was beyond anything Crowley had ever felt. They both groaned in tandem when Crowley bottomed out. He took a moment to rest his brow against Aziraphale's. Being inside the angel was better than all his memories of Heaven before the Fall, better than driving Mary for the first time, and, for sure, better than thwarting Armageddon. 

"I love you," he mumbled somewhere close to Aziraphale's left ear, before he picked up the pace. Aziraphale wrapped his legs around Crowley's hips, his fingers pulling at Crowley's shoulders to urge him on. 

They kissed uncoordinatedly but with passion until Aziraphale panted, "Touch me, please."

Crowley complied by encircling Aziraphale's length. His deft fingers stroked him, matching the rhythm of their thrusts. His other hand found the angel's and their fingers entwined. Crowley's eyes were locked on Aziraphale's face as Aziraphale's were on his. His lips were slightly parted and his blue eyes were shining. Crowley lost himself in the rocking motion of their hips that seemed to carry him on waves of pleasure and heat, but he never looked away from Aziraphale. 

"You're going to come for me, angel," Crowley said, while he fondled Aziraphale's wet head. "With me. When I say."

"Yes."

Aziraphale clamped down on him and Crowley groaned. He slightly changed the angle to hit Aziraphale's prostate with his thrusts. It didn't take long for Crowley's pushes to become frantic. His hips stuttered, his insides turned into fiery lava, and Crowley, as he came, choked out, "Come with me, angel."

He did. Aziraphale came with Crowley's name on his lips, his release coating both of their bellies. Aziraphale rolled them onto their sides and Crowley slipped out of the angel with a small sigh. Aziraphale gave Crowley a smug smile and the demon couldn't help but grin back, warm tiredness creeping over him.

"Sleep, love." 

Aziraphale's arms encircled him, his body pressed close, their legs tangled; Crowley couldn't have been more comfortable if he tried. Before Crowley fell asleep, he murmured into soft curls, "Stay."

>><<

Crowley woke up with his head resting on Aziraphale's chest and strong fingers playing with the strands of his hair. He could get used to waking up like this. 

Aziraphale closed the book he was reading after Crowley croaked, "Morning, angel."

"Good morning, love. I take it you have slept well?" 

Crowley made an affirmative sound, lifted his head and sought out Aziraphale's mouth for a good morning kiss, before settling back into his embrace. The sun shone brightly into his bedroom. Aziraphale had been up to open the curtains and, from the smell in the room, he had also found the kitchen and the cocoa Crowley had stocked up on with the angel in mind. 

"I had a look at your collection again when you were asleep. Do you know something is wrong with it?" Aziraphale paused for effect before he continued cheekily, "It is not complete."

For a second, Crowley tensed, just to fall back into the pliable state he was in. He chuckled, "Well, I will probably need your help to get them all together, then, won't I?"

"Tell me, you wily old demon, did you swap them all for replicas?"

"How do you know?"

"There haven't been any art thefts on the news."

"I'll show you how perfect each of them looks," Crowley brimmed with pride and Aziraphale laughed delightedly in response. 

"I need to show you my studio so you know where to look for me when I'm not in the bookshop… Or with you."

"Oh yes, please. I can't wait to see you drawing."

"I could draw you..." With that, the angel hopped impatiently out of the bed. "Come on, Crowley. Lots of things to do. Shower. Food. Art. For a change, _you're_ going to be the model!" The angel rushed towards the en-suite. 

"What about more sex?" Crowley called after him.

"That too," he heard Aziraphale's muffled voice over the shower running. 

He laughed out loud and followed his angel.

>><<

1 Mary, his Bentley, had carried him through a ring of fire and burned all the way to Tadfield when Armageddon had been near, which Crowley would never forget. He had been very happy that Adam had restored her to her former glory. [back]

2 Of _course_ he had the one with the apple icon, because using this particular brand was the funniest thing to the snake of the Garden of Eden. It helped that their devices worked as if invented by a demon, even though, for once, they weren't. [back]

3 Crowley didn't like Donald Trump one bit and getting that close to the man wasn't high on his to-do list. There was always the possibility of the man having a demon close, directing his unpredictability. [back]

4 That wasn't a lie. Crowley ate, on occasion, a morsel of chocolate. Strawberries and cherries were fine, too. But he didn't get peckish for sweets like Aziraphale did. In his opinion, nobody—not angel, demon or human—loved dessert more than Aziraphale. He didn't know much, but he was sure about that. [back]

5 Like all snakes, Crowley suffered from deuteranopia, an inability to see green and red colours. [back]

6 To humans, it was just a rumour that Leonardo had drawn his lover, Salaj, as Mona Lisa. Crowley knew for sure; the anagram "Mon Salai" revealed everything anyone needed to know about the topic... [back]

7 Blue light tended to destroy the yellow colours in Old Masters. [back]

8 Since their first meeting on that wall in the garden of Eden, Crowley had had enough time (and inclination) to imagine the Principality naked. [back]

9 Not only did both areas surround the Mediterranean, a place of beauty for Crowley, but this cradle of humanity was often forgotten by today's First World cuisine. [back]

10 It was a bit funny how he obsessed over food, just like Aziraphale did, but humans thought the way to someone's heart was through their stomach. Crowley was desperate enough by now to try some of mankind's wooing techniques on his angel. [back]

11 Crowley had loved The Two Rivers' many inventions, the first cursive script and the wheel, to mention but a few. Renaissance and Age of Enlightenment were both all well and good (indeed, much needed after medieval times), but they had not been able to hold a candle to Mesopotamia. [back]

**Author's Note:**

> I happily take your kudos or - a fic author's biggest joy - comments, but _please_ go and give some love to my brilliant collab partner [TayaSigerson](https://tayasigerson.tumblr.com/post/190309276577/title-the-muse-word-count-10509-archive)! She has created magic from and for my words. ♥
> 
> Here's the mentioned artwork—in order of appearance:  
> \- [Venus with a Mirror](https://www.nga.gov/audio-video/audio/venus-with-a-mirror-titian-english.html) by Titian  
> \- [Drinkies](https://www.berylcookprints.co.uk/product/drinkies/) by Beryl Cook  
> \- [The Sleeping Lady of Malta](https://artsandculture.google.com/exhibit/bgKS7KPNk-UDKw) by an unknown artist  
> \- [Venus and Musician](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venus_and_Musician) a series by Titian  
> \- [Venus in Front of the Mirror](http://www.liechtensteincollections.at/en/pages/artbase_main.asp?module=browse&action=m_work&lang=de&sid=87564&oid=W-1472004121953420224) by Peter Paul Rubens  
> \- [Seated Bather](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Seated_Bather_by_Pierre-Auguste_Renoir,_c._1883-1884,_oil_on_canvas_-_Fogg_Art_Museum,_Harvard_University_-_DSC00720.jpg) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir  
> \- [A Courtesan With a Mirror](https://www.invaluable.com/auction-lot/bernardino-licinio-venice-c-1485-c-1550-venic-20-c-or7rxtlrn5#) by Bernardino Licinio  
> \- [Man and Woman](https://www.oceansbridge.com/shop/artists/b/bos-bre/botero-fernando/man-and-woman-1996) by Fernando Botero  
> \- [Venus of Willendorf](https://www.emuseumstore.com/Pocket-Art-Venus-of-Willendorf-Prehistoric-Statue-Miniature_p_3921.html) by an unknown artist  
>   
> And before someone points it out: Yes, I took creative freedom with the dichotomy of snakes: Unlike Crowley, snakes can’t see yellows and reds, they do see [greens, blues and UV light](http://www.biosphereonline.com/2016/09/06/snake-vision-what-do-snakes-see/). But I needed him to see Aziraphale’s hair and eye colour and the colour of his clothes, which is why Crowley actually sees like a dichromatic human in this story.  
> Everything else, that is based on science, should be correct. Even the tidbit about the Mona Lisa: Apparently, there are quite a few theories about the person depicted in it. One of them is about Da Vinci being gay and [portraying his lover](https://www.ovimagazine.com/art/1046). Too good an opportunity to pass over it, amirite?


End file.
